The concept of a hero is lost on you. You're only three. Who knows what a hero means then? Who has enough presence in their tiny minds to identify someone to look up to, much less give it a name? Nevertheless, that's exactly what he is. Later you might hear things like "man of the house" or having some kind of responsibility. When you're older, you'll know what kind of burden that must have been on him. He's only five. Nobody should have to feel a burden like that, even if they themselves are too young to understand it. He'll never complain, at least not to you. That's not what a hero does.
He doesn't look the part. In fact, he actively tries to be anything but the hero type. A snap of his wrist has his hand fly and smack upside your head. "Keep your eye on the ball, dork." He's blunt, but there's always a kind of smile to his words. He's always pushing you, even to be a little bit ... more. Nobody would call it heroic the time he beats down a nine year old at the ripe age of twelve. Nobody would call it heroic when he sends the kid to the ground with a bloody nose and likely a black eye. He gets suspended, but you know the truth. You were there, tears drying on your face when he grabbed the kid by the collar of his shirt, lifting him off the ground just enough to go face to face. "You fuck with my brother, you deal with me." He's menacing in a way that terrifies you, but also gives you this swell of pride. He's your hero then, even if he was doing the wrong thing. He promises that nobody will ever mess with you while he's around. It's a promise that he'll keep. That afternoon he digs money out of his pocket. You know he's been saving every single dime he has to work on repairing a piece of shit bike so he doesn't have to walk the street for his paper route. Today he takes precisely $2 out of that budget and buys you an ice cream. Double scoops. He doesn't even flinch when you ask.
He's the least humble man you know. Well, young man. No teenager is actually humble, are they? But he asks you, because he knows you won't give him shit for it. He asks you, and you immediately open up his math book. You understand complex equations and he "jokes" that he barely gets fractions. It's ninth grade math, but you understand it enough to explain it to him. You can tell he's embarrassed to ask you about it, but you ignore that. It's truly the least you can do. You can see his hands clench when the front door bangs open and that guy comes in with her. He hates it more than you do. For you, you've never known anything different. Plus you're much more of a kid than he is. They don't expect anything from you. It's easy to blend into the wallpaper. For him, blending in has never been his style. You've always admired that about him, but it gets him into trouble. So you make your voice a little louder to distract him from wanting to storm into the other room and do something reckless. He's never hauled off and hit one of those guys, but he's come close. He provokes them because it's in him to assert his dominance, protect his space. He doesn't give a shit about protecting her, that much you know. He cares about protecting you, though. With his life, if it came down to it. The least you can do is help him get better than a D in math.
It's your first break-up. You're fifteen and you don't really understand what you've done wrong. You're not sure what kind of advice you need, or who you can really talk to ... but you go to him anyway. He makes a crass joke and you immediately regret your decision. He sees that regret and shifts gears so seamlessly that you almost don't notice it. You go outside and he hands you a beer -- not so much because he thinks a kid at fifteen should be drinking, but what's the harm? "Heartbreak is a fucking bitch." Eloquence at its finest. Sitting on the shitty old porch, you're quiet together for a while. "Did you love her?" He asks you finally. It takes you a minute before you answer, and when you do it's with a shrug. "Maybe. I dunno. I dunno what it's supposed to feel like." The quiet that stretches between the two of you feels time and again like the entire conversation has been dropped altogether, but it suits the two of you. "Well, I think when you know, you know. Don't lose sleep over it, yeah?" There was never going to be any kind of deep wisdom from him, but you find you don't need it. Blunt, to the point. That's always his way.
"We can't afford it, it's fine." You say it with such conviction that you almost believe it yourself. It will be fine. You don't need it. You've almost forgotten all about it until two months later, you walk into your room and there it is. The Gibson on the box almost looks like it's glowing in your eyes. You know how much this guitar costs. It's the exact one you wanted. Vintage. B25 12 String. Acoustic. Cherry. The one you wanted. The tag that read $1,299. "You didn't steal it, did you?" He laughs, the kind of laugh he only gives when he's caught off guard and doesn't have time to hide it. "No, asshole. Happy birthday." He doesn't say anything else, but that he expects you to learn to play it well. You'll feel terrible that it takes you a week to notice his bike is gone. He sold it so you could play. You vow to play that guitar better than anyone.
He comes alive. That's the only way you can put it. When he told you about the school play, he did so with that same sardonic smile and a roll of his eyes. "You don't have to come. It's stupid." You're there opening night. Who would have ever thought a kid like this would be put as the lead in a play? Especially something that isn't slapstick or where he can make fun of himself the whole time. A play like Flowers for Algernon is surprising to see performed by high schoolers, and all the more so by him. He takes it more seriously than you've ever seen him. It's like you're watching someone who is not your brother, but someone else entirely. He's channeling something deep in his soul and it's transcendent. He's might be your hero, but you've never been more proud of him.
A Thanksgiving tradition at this point, just the two of you and Denny's. It feels weird to be here now. You know that it's not going to be the same after this year, and so does he. He spends a majority of dinner flirting with the waitress, but you're used to that by now, too. You just roll your eyes and steal a handful of his fries. He doesn't even notice. "So you know what you're gonna major in?" It's a point of contention between the two of you. He maintains he's not going to school, that's more your area. "Getting the fuck outta here." He says with a sigh, stuffing another fry in his mouth. Quiet falls between you but it's a loaded one. You can't keep him here. You refuse to be that selfish. However, you wish he wouldn't go. You know that he would stay if you asked him to, so you say nothing. You both know that you can take care of yourself, but that's not the point. It's always been the two of you against the world. "Thought about going to LA maybe. I dunno, I have a buddy down there, says I can crash on his couch. Maybe be a beach bum or something." He pauses, the kind of pause you know well. He's figuring out how to play off something he really cares about as nothing at all. "Do a play or something, maybe." It's as close as he'll ever be to asking for your blessing, or even permission. "You should do it, Bran. Maybe you'll be a movie star." You stab at a piece of pumpkin pie -- you hate the stuff, but it's a Thanksgiving tradition. He'll finish it like he always does.
It's incredible, seeing how far he's come. You actually laugh when you arrive and it's his stupid face on a billboard. You learn the hard way not to mention that your brother was 'Ryan' on The OC -- that shoots down any chances you had of flirting with her in a way that doesn't bring up his name all the time. Still, it's a process that makes you laugh. His success is something you revel in. You see how he's come to his own, found something he loves, something he's good at. Not something he does because he has to, but rather because it's in him. You love being around for his premieres. He still makes time to come up when you've got a big gig going. It's only when you see certain people hanging around that you start to worry. When he shrugs and laughs with "Fuck if I know." when you ask him who some shady looking character is out by his pool. You see the women who hang on him and while part of you feels like that's clearly the kind of life he wants, you see vacant, hollow looks in all of their faces. You worry. You worry because you're not sure if you're strong enough to save him, like he's saved you all those years.
It's a role reversal you're wholly unprepared for. You should have seen it coming years ago, but what would you have said? He's a grown man, and well ... you've never been able to stand up to him. You've never needed to, to be fair. He's always been the capable one -- too much on his shoulders, but it's a burden that he wears well. The entirety of your life, you have been his responsibility. He has never made you feel like an inconvenience for it. The phone call you got just the day before had you immediately jumping onto a plane, canceling two gigs, and showing up on his doorstep.
His friends are there, a couple of them. People you know well enough but aren't sure if you trust. You don't know if they've been enablers. If they've watched this happen, encouraged it, partied with him. More than once, your hand hovers over your phone. He'd kill you if you call her, but you still want to. For all you know she's moved on and it would just be opening up an old wound, but you know your brother, too. She's the only thing he's ever loved, and maybe having her here would be a comfort. You stop yourself every time. It's not your place.
The first time you go into his room, it's to bring him water. For all that you've grown up together, sparred, fought, he's never scared you for you. Fearing what he was capable of doing? Absolutely, but you knew he'd never cause you harm. Perhaps it's seeing what he's done to himself that scares you the most. It shifts your perspective in a way that you aren't ready for. Sweat seems to be pouring from his face and he peels off a soaked through t-shirt. You go to grab him another one but he stops you. "Just gonna keep happening, don't worry about it." You put the water on the bedstand and hesitate. You leave, because you can't watch him like this for more than a few seconds. You're ashamed, but promise to try harder.
He's vomiting so violently that it goes beyond turning your own stomach and goes to real concern. "I'm calling a doctor..." He protests, says he's fine. You try and stand your ground but he yells in a way that startles you. You back down. Bring him a wash cloth. This time you don't leave entirely. Just stand in the doorway, waiting for him to need you. He's too proud to ask, but you're there anyway.
Seeing him in pain is something you've never experienced like this. If he wasn't acting, you've never even seen him cry. There's nothing you can do but tell him no when he asks for something just to take the edge off. Hell, you don't even know what drugs he was on, or what kind of cocktail of them. He insisted on doing this himself, without a rehab facility, without doctors, without anything but a very select few people who he trusts, who know him at his core. You're all powerless here, it's just his fight with the demons that have a vice grip around him. He throws you out at one point, chucking a glass at your head that only narrowly misses.
He's finally able to hold something in his stomach, and it looks like sleep has finally taken him. It helps, having finally given him tylenol ... you did some research, but it's shocking that that was the over-the-counter suggestion. He chugged a gatorade with it but now he's been sleeping for a couple of hours. His friends tell you to get some sleep too, and you say you will. It feels quiet in the house for the first time in hours ... well, it's spanned into days now, actually. You sit on the floor, just watching over him ... it feels even more of a role reversal than when you first got there. You wonder how many times he stood watch over you, literally or figuratively. The answer, you know, is too many times to count. He's been there for you every single time you needed him, and even when you didn't. It was high past time you chipped away at that eternal debt. He'd never call to collect on it, but that's part of what makes him, even still, your hero.